Yvone Lenard - The Magic of Provence: Pleasures of Southern France

he sprig of lavender that opens each chapter evokes the flower whose pervading fragrance defines Provence and its sensuous appeal.

There, sachets of dried lavender are tucked between the folds of sheets in linen closets or hung from drawer pulls and bedroom window latches. Lavender soothes, heals, and helps to ensure a peaceful sleep. Mustiness of long-closed rooms will not resist a few drops of lavender oil. The fresh, innocent scent of lavender on sun-warmed skin is the breath of summer itself. It serves as the base of fabled perfumes, such as Guerlains Jicky, a favorite of Jacqueline Kennedy, or the recently introduced Lavande Velours from the same house.

Lavender will grow almost anywhere but thrives best on the high plateaus of Provence (at lower altitude, it will be lavandin, a close relative, practically indistinguishable from lavande proper). Brave a July sun to visit Valensole fields in Haute-Provence, where carpets of mauve, purple, and blue stretch all the way to distant mountains. Deeply inhale their perfume to intoxication. Each flower is alive with bees brought there with their hives to collect heavenly scented lavender honey. After harvest, distilleries all over the countryside will waft their fragrant vapors into the air.

You, too, can grow lavender in a dry, sunny spot of your garden or terrace. Cut off the spikes and let them dry, then pull off the flowerets to fill your own sachets. If you tuck one of these under your pillow, you will fall asleep dreaming of Provence and its pleasures.

rovence smiled on us that first morning, and, seldom drinkers that we are, we were both drunk before noon.

The night before, my husband and I had arrived at our new hilltop village house in the Luberon, heart of Provence, We slept fitfully, not yet adjusted to the time difference, vaguely aware of roosters crowing most of the night. Their enthusiasm rose to greet the day, and later the sun, streaming in through open windows, woke us up, as the belfry bell rang eight times. When we rose, though, the rooms remained night-fresh and the tiles cool underfoot.

No food in the house, but we were both too jet-lagged to be hungry. Wayne left soon afterward to pick up a rental truck and drive to Marseille, hoping to get there during the short hours the customs office opens to the public, to collect crates of belongings we had shipped from the States. Alone, I wandered from room to room, discovering our still-unfamiliar domain, exulting in this adventure. Bliss and expectation danced in the air, like the brilliant motes caught in bars of sunshine traced by the shutters I had half closed against the rising heat of the day.

Almost directly above stood the castle that had enchanted us on our firstand onlyvisit to the village, its red standard emblazoned with the gold lion of Provence, snapping in the breeze. Suddenly, from an open window way up in the towers, a cascade of piano notes burst forth and descended, floating down the battlements. Someone was playing Chopin. Not the hesitant fingers of a child. A sure, expert hand was spinning light, airy music. Transfixed, I stood lost in reverie. Had we, unknowingly, stepped straight into some Camelot?

The sound of the kitchen door, noisily opened, drew me out of my trance. I would learn later that, in Provence, callers walk in that way, ignoring more ceremonial entrances, not bothering to knock, simply calling out: '? a quelqu'un? Anyone home? I found myself face to face with a tall, handsome blond man in his thirties, carrying a small, wicker-clad jug.

He didn't introduce himself but took my hand and bent low over it. Salut he said, we heard you had arrived. Il faut arroser a, one must drink to that. Do you have any glasses? From the still-empty dish closet, I unearthed two jam jars and rinsed them, all the time thinking: This can't be a village man, he is dressed much too casually. I suspected locals wouldn't come calling at the house of strangers, wearing cut-off jeans and a shirt knotted at the waist. Obviously, someone else. But who could that be?

He filled the glasses with ros wine. Taste this he urged. Just picked it up at the winery down below. Our ros is the best in Provence. Cant travel, doesn't age well. But when its fresh, its the Virgin Mary in silk panties. Like it? Its still cool from the barrel.

The clear, pink wine smelled and tasted of fruit. It hit the tongue with just a hint of sparkle and, indeed, slithered down the throat as lightly as silk chiffon. Well, added my visitor, to your health, and welcome. Hope you like it here. Most Luberon villages already have a few American residents, but it looks like were catching up at last. Wtl Him and who else, I wondered. Cul sec he concluded, Bottoms up, and refilled our glasses.

I know enough to offer a seat to visitors, so I tried to coax him to the terrace, where he could at least sit on the low surrounding wall, or to the living room, maybe. But he wasn't interested.

Much better here, he declared. The tiles are nice and cool. Here, sit on the floor. And he showed me the way, sitting in the kitchen doorway, feet on the stone steps, patting the place next to him, the ros jug between us. Intimidated, yet entranced, I sat, too, on the kitchen stoop.

Who, who in the world could that be? His casually knotted shirt was sans buttons, but he wore a signet ring with an almost worn-off engraving. No clues there. Obviously, I dont know him, yet he seems vaguely familiar. A TV or movie actor? I am not that up on French personalities. Blonds are rare in this Mediterranean land of dark-haired, olive-skinned people. Still, that profile, the clear blue eyes, the high forehead and slightly heavy jaw, why do I think Ive seen it somewhere before? A chain hung from his neck, with a heavy gold seal attached. Twisting my neck as inconspicuously as possible, I tried to make out the engraving on the face of the seal. Perhaps there would be initials there, a clue of some sort? Pretending to squirm into a more comfortable position I managed to sneak a peak. Engraved on the face of the seal I distinguished something like a double-headed eagle, perhaps the emblem of some royal house.

Of course, now, I could figure out why that handsome face, with its square jaw, brought a vague feeling of dj vu. In spite of the ros's mounting buzz, I finally put it all together. Something aristocratic, as well as the mans very casualness, betrayed the highborn. Yes, yes: a couple of years earlier, a feature in Town and Country had caught my attention. The lead photo pictured a beautiful young girl, smiling a dimpled smile, strolling on the terrace of a castle in Provence, arm in arm with her fianc. She was, told the story, the daughter of a great house, niece of a duke, and a budding concert pianist; he, the scion of the royal house of a neighboring European country. Although his father had, a decade or so earlier, lost his throne to a military takeover or some such political upheaval,